Debt
by The Phoenix King
Summary: All gods demand sacrifice. When the Sabrae Clan is struck with a deadly pestilence, what price is Marethari willing to pay for the aid of the Witch of the Wilds? One-shot fic, pre-Dragon Age: Origins, set in the Grey Universe continuity.


_A/N:__ This is a short Dragon Age fic I did several months ago for a Bioware-themed fan contest, for which I received second place and a shiny interview (I'll see if I can post the link to that in my main profile). The challenge was to write or draw a piece centered around an NPC from one of Bioware's games, and the chance to examine Marethari and her connection to our favourite Woman of Many Years was not to be missed. The ending is a bit rushed (I basically hammered this out in a day and sent it off a few hours before the deadline), but I hope you enjoy it regardless. Just wanted to give you guys something to tide you over while I finish the next chapter of _The Grey Path, _and as ever, thanks for all your support and patience in this difficult time._

* * *

Debt

It was the summer of 9:13 Dragon by the reckoning of the human calendar, in the month of Solis, when everything changed for Marethari.

The fever had swept through the Sabrae clan with a virulence that the Dalish had not experienced in many years. Marethari had always heard that their would-be kindred in the alienages, already labouring beneath the weight of humanity's oppression and their own cultural ignorance, experienced such contagions frequently, but sickness had rarely touched the Dalish. In this case, the results were devastating. Men and women, young and old, the fever spared no one, and with more and more growing sick, the clan had been forced to halt their wanderings in a wooden glen near the human town of Lothering. It was not an idea place to camp, being so close to a human settlement, but with the fever beginning to spread amongst the halla handlers, they had no other options.

Day and night, the small clearing was filled with the moans of the sick, and the tramp of running feet as healthy members of the clan brought urns of broth and clean water for their afflicted brethren. Others still carried bundles of medicinal plants and herbs for the Keeper's potions and poultices. Marethari's knowledge of herb-lore and the old magic of their people was considerable, but even her talents could not keep the sick tents from becoming overcrowded. Murmurs of discontent had already begun to spread. _Ilothan would never have let the sickness spread so far_, came the whispers. _The old Keeper would have cured everyone by now._ A few even dared to consider that Marethari was a poor replacement for her murdered predecessor, that they should have sought out a mage from a sister clan instead.

Marethari would not stand for it. Ilothan's loss had been a tragedy, but she was Keeper of the Sabrae now. The safety and well-being of the clan was her responsibility, whether they liked it or not, and she would succeed. She had trained alongside Ilothan for over forty-five years, and possessed just as much magical skill as he. She would stop this contagion, and they would finally recognize her for the Keeper she was.

But that wasn't happening, was it? All her attempts at finding a remedy for the fever were being met with failure; the concoctions derived from her herbs resisted by the contagion, her healing magic serving only to ease the symptoms rather than cure the disease itself. She experimented with new compounds, hoping that a synthesis of their ingredients would be the key; this too proved fruitless. Even physical remedies like bathing the afflicted elves in tepid water had done little. The sickness had long ceased to be a challenge and had evolved into a critical threat, but Marethari was convinced that a solution lay just around the corner.

Hahren Paivel disagreed, and after her latest compound (an ointment of elfroot and Andraste's Grace) proved to be ineffective, the clan storyteller took her aside so they could speak in private. She supposed it had to be him; he had known her the longest, and was old and wise enough to not be cowed by her authority. "I'm becoming concerned about the children, Keeper," he stated bluntly, glancing around for any eavesdroppers. Finding none, he continued, the urgency thick in his voice. "Mahariel, Junar and Fenarel have all fallen ill, and their condition seems to be worsening by the day, Mahariel especially."

"I am aware of that, Paivel," Marethari replied curtly as she sliced up roots. "I am doing all I can for them, and for the rest of the clan. Do you assume otherwise?"

"Of course not, Keeper. But the situation is becoming a dangerous one, and as much as it pains me to suggest it, we may need some help."

"And what help would that be? Has one of our sister clans heard of our plight?"

"Not that kind of help, Keeper," Paivel intoned grimly, and Marethari stared at him in disbelief, unable to believe what she was hearing. "With your permission, I'd like to travel to the nearby human village and trade for medicines."

Sudden anger rushed forth, and the Keeper clenched her fists hard enough her nails drew blood. "Does the clan have so little confidence in me that they would put their trust in the _shemlen_ before myself? They would risk discovery and possible attack before they would see the value of my skills?"

"It is not your skills I doubt, Marethari. This contagion is unlike anything our clan has seen before, and we simply do not possess the needed lore to cure it. The humans may have experienced something like this in the past, or perhaps our kin in their cities. As much as I am loath to admit it, they may know something that we do not. They may have a solution that will save the lives of our kin."

"At what cost?" the Keeper scoffed. "The humans would not be willing to aid us, and those in the alienages have no lore worth possessing. Depending on their kind cost us Ilothan, and I will not allow any more of our clan to fall thanks to them. Do you suggest that we turn to blood magic and call upon demons to aid us next? We are the Dalish, Paivel. We walk the lonely path, and we cannot depend on others to aid us. We shall solve this matter on our own."

"But what if we cannot?" Paivel asked incredulously. "Would you be willing to sacrifice our clanmates, all for the sake of your pride? Would you be willing to tell Ashalle that Marahiel went to join her parents in the Beyond, simply because you were unwilling to ask others for aid?"

"I will not risk it!" she shouted, drawing more than a few anxious stares. Taking a few deep breaths to calm down, Marethari met the hahren's cold glare in kind. "We have always known that our way of life would demand sacrifice. It is better we pay it rather than bend knee to the humans."

"But you're not the one paying it, are you, Keeper? The cost is being borne by others," Paviel retorted as he stormed away. The murmuring broke out once again, and Marethari retreated toward her aravel, face flushed with anger. To think that Paivel, the man responsible for imparting the traditions of their people to the next generation, would be so willing to seek aid from those who threaten those ways left her feeling ashamed. How could he even consider something like that?

Sighing, the Keeper closed her eyes. It was not his fault, she decided. Ilothan had been Keeper for many years, and his death at the hands of human bandits was a loss that the Sabrae had never truly recovered from. It was to be expected that they would doubt her, especially considering how powerful a mage he had been. But she would earn their trust and loyalty. When this illness was cured, none would doubt her any longer. Closing the door to her aravel behind her, Marethari permitted herself a moment to breathe.

The moment passed, and that's when she saw the old human woman sitting on her cot and reading the Keeper's grimoire as if she owned the place. "What kept you?" the _shemlen_ demanded in a grumpy tone, pausing to take a bite of an apple. The intruder wore a ragged old dress, and her white hair had been rendered a dark grey by dirt and lack of care. "It used to be the Dalish were so punctual and organized. Now look at you!"

Instantly, Marethari drew her staff, white heat gathering at its tip as she levelled it at the intruder. "Who are you? And how did you get past our hunters?"

"You speak as if that was a challenge!" the old woman laughed, casting golden eyes on Marethari. "And therein lies the great flaw of the Dalish. Too often, you conceive of the world's possibilities as being identical to the boundaries of your knowledge, too self-assured to truly examine that which you hold dear. Suffice it to say, I go where I please, and do as I will. Can you and yours truly say the same?"

"Of course!" Marethari boasted. "And how does a _shem_ come to lecture a Keeper of the Dalish on our traditions? You know nothing of us, and I have no desire to teach one who skulks into our camp like a thief."

"Brave words. What brave words, indeed. Of course, Ilothan had no need to boast and posture, didn't he, Marethari? He recognized that such things were for fools, and not the People he had sworn to protect."

The intruder's golden gaze settled on her, and Marethari felt her blood turn to ice. "How do you know my name? Or Ilothan's?"

"Names, such interesting things," the old woman said, rising from the cot. "So lovely to hear, but they never do contain the whole truth, do they? Take one of mine, for instance. _Asha'bellanar_ has a certain ring to it, but it never truly encompasses all that I am. Indeed, it only scratches the surface." She took a step forward, and Marethari felt her knees go weak with fear. "Does that answer your question?"

_Asha'bellanar._ The lore of the Dalish had spoken of a being with that name, though exactly what she was remained a matter of debate amongst the clans. Some said she was a human sorceress of great power, her soul bound to a creature of immense darkness. Others declared she was a trickster spirit, a creature of Fen'Harel sent to cause mischief in the mortal realm. The tales spoke of her as both friend and foe to the Dalish, possessing immense power and wisdom, but all in the service of ends that were capricious and beyond understanding. But what all the stories agreed upon was that her appearance was an omen of considerable significance. For good or ill, no clan walked away from the Woman of Many Years untouched by the experience. Even the humans knew of her, referring to the mysterious being as "Flemeth" and declaring their own origins for the creature of myth. Marethari froze, uncertain whether to bow, strike or flee. "What is it that you want? Why are you here?"

"Your clan is dying," Flemeth stated bluntly, taking another bite of her apple. "The fever that affects them is beyond your power to cure, and soon, your kin will perish."

"That's a lie!" protested the Keeper, her mind rebelling at the truth. She was the Keeper! She could not fail her people, she would not! "I'll find a solution, I know I can!"

"You will not find one fast enough. Not without my help."

Forcing herself to calm down, Marethari raised her next question in a trembling voice: "How exactly can you help us?"

"The fever affecting your people is a dangerous one, but it can be cured with an elixir distilled from the roots of the Idunni plant. I can tell you where the plant can be found, and how to prepare it. That is, of course, if it is not beneath you to ask for my aid!" scoffed Flemeth. "And… and what would you ask in return?"

"Why, merely that you return my favour in kind, when I have need of it. Certainly nothing beneath the dignity of the Dalish. What I will ask of you is no more than I offer now; a simple task, but one that carries great weight." She gave a small shrug, as if the potential extinction of an entire Dalish clan was no concern whatsoever. "Well, don't just stand there. I have other things to do with my time than offer solutions to arrogant elves. Tell me, what is it to be?"

For the first time since she became Keeper of the Sabrae, Marethari could only stand there, caught like a hare before the gaze of a wolf. She had never been indecisive, never failed to firmly address the clan's problems or swiftly declare a course of action. Ilothan had been like that too, and after his passing, she had tried so hard to be a strong leader like he was, to be worth of her mantle and the responsibility that came with it. She could not simply hand those responsibilities over to another, or depend on fickle outsiders to offer their aid. Consorting with the humans was bad enough, but their motives were clear compared to those of _Asha'bellanar._ A being of such power could hardly be refused, but to accept her offer was to potentially expose the clan to further danger.

And then Marethari heard a child wailing, the piercing cry of the sick infant Mahariel signalling further moans of distress. Ilothan's child, dying because she did not have the wisdom to save her, or any of them. She hated to admit it, but Paivel was right. They did need help, and _Asha'bellanar_ was offering it. _Creators, please forgive me, I don't have a choice anymore, do I?_

"So the question remains, what exactly are you willing to do for the sake of your people, hmm?" asked Flemeth, brow arched in derision.

Without hesitation, Marethari met the newcomer's gaze. "Anything."

* * *

Within the woods north of Lothering, the cave had lain hidden and undisturbed by the local humans for many years. Lumberjacks ceaselessly cleared the outer edges of the forest to provide the timber needed for homes and industry, and on occasion, a bold forester would descend into the denser pats of the forest to hunt for game, but these were bold souls and few in number. So when Marethari descended into the dank gloom, she immediately noticed the unbroken cobwebs, the stony ground covered in a layer of dust and grime, the absence of detritus and scraps of food, all signs that this place had not seen the passage of humanity in quite some time.

Steeling herself, the Keeper pushed any lingering reservations aside. _Asha'bellanar_ was an unknown factor, and Marethari had no idea if accepting the sorceress' offer was worth the cost, but she was committed now. She had left Paivel in charge before leaving; despite their disagreements, he was a well-respected member of the clan, and if this proved to be some kind of trap, then he would need to lead them to safety. She had elected to handle this on her own; many of their hunters were ill by this point, and she had no desire to see others suffer any more because of her choices. If this was a mistake, then she would pay for it, and no other.

Moving forward, Marethari heard the first whispers tugging at the edges of her mind, the voices softly murmuring out of the dark, and she felt the winds of magic gently swirl around her. The Veil between the physical world and the Beyond was thin here, and Marethari prepared to defend herself, reaching for the comforting weight of her staff and belt knife. Was that the reason that _Asha'bellanar_ only told her the cave's location, and would not come down herself? Perhaps the Woman of Many Years simply though the task beneath her and wanted to test the Keeper's mettle, or perhaps the weakened Veil was a cause of concern even for a being of her power? She couldn't help but shiver at the last notion.

After a few moments wandering through the moss-ridden caverns, Marethari found the Idunni plants, their dry stalks rattling as the Keeper ripped them free of the earth. The roots themselves were heavy things, roughly the same dimensions as a turnip, and their reddish flesh glistened in the light of her staff. Fearing for her clan's safety every moment she was gone, Marethari moved quickly, filling a leather satchel to the point of bursting. _Please, Creators, let these work. Let my clan be safe again._

"What are you doing here?" the voice asked, and Marethari turned to see an elven child standing before her, tiny hands wringing the cloth of his filthy smock. The boy's wide blue eyes watered in the light of her staff, and Marethari lowered it to avoid blind the child. "When did you come here?"

"I was going to ask you the same, _da'len,_" Marethari proclaimed, quickly examining the boy for any sign of injury. A helpless child like this one would not have come in a place like this unless he was desperate and afraid, and the Keeper's heart softened at the sight of the miserable elf. Maybe this was a sign from the Creators that their fortunes were improving! Marethari allowed herself a moment to daydream returning to the clan, carrying the cure for their afflictions and a new clanmate to teach and watch over and bring out of the darkness of ignorance. What a moment that would be! Dimly, she felt her staff fall from nerveless hands, but the thought of the clan cheering her name in triumph was much more important.

"I'm glad that you're here," the child said, reaching for her hand. "I was getting lonely in here."

"Well, you don't need to worry about that, _da'len,_ I will look after you," Marethari declared, shrugging aside the burden of the Idunni roots. She had worked so very hard trying to cure the fever and was very tired. A few minutes' rest wouldn't hurt anyone, would it? Just her and the boy, vanishing in front of her eyes…

The illusion and accompanying fatigue faded, her vision swam, and Marethari had but a moment to shake aside the overwhelming vertigo before the demon struck. Black tendrils, each the width of a vine and dripping with ichor, shot out from the darkness, pinioning her limbs and casting her to the floor of the cave. Cursing in Elvish, the Keeper made to retrieve her staff, but the tendrils were too strong, dragging her across the hard rock.

And then the demon's voice rumbled out of the festering dark. _"Fresh prey!"_ it howled, lumbering towards the trapped elf, awkwardly shifting its bloated bulk upon four thick, scaled legs. It was a demon of hunger, having emerged through the rifts in the Veil to feed on mortals, and Marethari forced her gag reflex down at the sight of the monstrosity. It was vaguely tortoise-like, if a tortoise had grown to the size of an aravel, but no natural beast possessed a series of ten heads protruding from its back on stumpy necks, or the mass of tentacles, each one rooted between the heads to make it easier to tear into prey. Its primary head was a nightmare of jagged fangs jutting from a brutish and oversized jaw, while centered between the glittering black eyes adapted to see in all conditions, an exotic spine dangled a bioluminescent orb in front of the beast, the source of the vision that lured her within striking range. The demon spoke again, every mouth moving in unison, the sound of their voices overlapping only heightening her terror. _"Mageflesh! We have not dined on mageflesh in an age!"_

"Begone, spirit!" shouted Marethari, bringing her magic forth. The demon howled as flame burst from the elf's hands, searing the mucous-covered appendages and burning them away. Seeing its prey escape its grasp, the demon struck out with a fresh wave of tendrils, but she was prepared this time and burned them to ash as well. Scrambling away, Marethari grabbed her staff and sent a bolt of eldritch energy slamming into the demon's torso, momentarily staggering it.

Stunned for a mere moment, the hunger demon pressed the attack, barrelling forth like a rampaging bear, oblivious to the bolts of fire that singed its armoured hide. _"Foolish creature!"_ came its howl, the secondary heads snapping their teeth in anticipation of the meal to come. _"You cannot escape us! We shall dine upon your flesh this eve, and your soul will be devoured!"_

When it was ten paces away, Marethari brought forth lightning, hammering the demon with all the strength she could muster. She was flagging now, drained by the long nights spent seeking a cure, and the lightning scattered against its bulk. Injured but unhindered, the demon continued its charge, and Marethari cried out as a barbed tendril sliced into her side. The demon roared in triumph, even as Marethari could only lie there, watching her blood mingle with the dirt.

_The blood…_

Without hesitation or consideration of the consequences, the Keeper acted, drawing her knife and driving it home in the palm of her hand. The demon stumbled and halted, realization dawning. Its primary head darted forth, snake-like, but too late. Fuelled by the sacrifice of her own blood, Marethari brought forth her fire, hotter and brighter than it had even burned before, and sent it lancing, white-hot, into the monster's head. Screaming, the demon staggered away, knocking chunks of rock from the walls in its death throes, but Marethari would not relent. Howling in exaltation at the power she commanded, she lashed out again and again, the fire wrapping about the creature, embracing it, _devouring_ it.

And then it was gone, reduced to ashes, and she was left alone in the dark, the ecstasy of the magic ebbing away. Shuddering and shaking, Marethari stared at the blade, still damp with her blood, and with a muffled sob, tossed it into the depths of the cave. There had been enough compromises for one day.

* * *

For all her dread reputation,_ Asha'bellanar_ had not lied. The elixirs brewed with the Idunni roots had restore her clan to their former selves and ended the threat of fever for good. After so long, Marethari had finally been vindicated, and never again would the clan wish for a dead man's skills over her own. She was finally worthy of being called a Keeper, for her arrogance had faded in the face of the unknown. She had gotten what she had always wanted… and yet, it had cost her more than she was willing to give. From this night forth, the Keeper knew her rest would always be troubled, for no matter how many years passed, she knew that _Asha'bellanar_ would never forget the debt owed to her.

And why should she? For what god ever aided mortals without the proper sacrifice?


End file.
